Sandra Belloni — Volume 5 eBook

“But if you’ve just come off your journey,
and have got a lady in there, we must postpone, I
suppose. Say, this afternoon. I’ll
keep up to the mark, if nothing happens....”

Emilia pushed the door from the hand of Mr. Pericles,
and was advancing toward the old man on the landing;
but no sooner did the latter verify to his startled
understanding that he had seen her, than with an exclamation
of “All right! good-bye!” he began a rapid
descent, of the stairs. A distance below, he
bade Mr. Pericles take care of her, and as an excuse
for his abrupt retreat, the word “busy”
sounded up.

“Does my face frighten him?” Emilia thought.
It made her look on herself with a foreign eye.
This is a dreadful but instructive piece of contemplation;
acting as if the rich warm blood of self should have
ceased to hug about us, and we stand forth to be dissected
unresistingly. All Emilia’s vital strength
now seemed to vanish. At the renewal of Mr.
Pericles’ peremptory mandate for her to sing,
she could neither appeal to him, nor resist; but,
raising her chest, she made her best effort, and then
covered her face. This was done less for concealment
of her shame-stricken features than to avoid sight
of the stupefaction imprinted upon Mr. Pericles.

“Again, zat A flat!” he called sternly.

She tried it.

“Again!”

Again she did her utmost to accomplish the task.
If you have seen a girl in a fit of sobs elevate
her head, with hard-shut eyelids, while her nostrils
convulsively take in a long breath, as if for speech,
but it is expended in one quick vacant sigh, you know
how Emilia looked. And it requires a humane
nature to pardon such an aspect in a person from whom
we have expected triumphing glances and strong thrilling
tones.

“What is zis?” Mr. Pericles came nearer
to her.

He would listen to no charges against the atmosphere.
Commanding her to give one simple run of notes, a
contralto octave, he stood over her with keenly watchful
eyes. Sir Purcell bade him observe her distress.

“I am much obliged,” Mr. Pericles bowed.
“she is ruined. I have suspected.
Ha! But I ask for a note! One!”

This imperious signal drew her to another attempt.
The deplorable sound that came sent Emilia sinking
down with a groan.

“Basta, basta! So, it is zis tale,”
said Mr. Pericles, after an observation of her huddled
shape. “Did I not say—­”

His voice was so menacingly loud and harsh that Sir
Purcell remarked: “This is not the time
to repeat it—­pardon me—­whatever
you said.”

“Ze fool—­she play ze fool!
Sir, I forget ze Christian—­ah! Purcell!—­I
say she play ze fool, and look at her! Why is
it she comes to me now? A dozen times I warn
her. To Italy! to Italy! all is ready:
you will have a place at ze Conservatorio. No:
she refuse. I say ’Go, and you are a queen.
You are a Prima at twenty, and Europe is beneas you.’
No: she refuse, and she is ruined. ‘What,’
I say, ’what zat dam silly smile mean?’
Oh, no! I am not lazy!’ ‘But you
area fool!’ ‘Oh, no!’ ’And
what are you, zen? And what shall you do?’
Nussing! nussing! nussing! And, dam! zere is
an end.”